


Tumblr Drabbles

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 2Stans, Age Difference, Arranged Marriage, Dark!Ford, Drabble Collection, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Marriage, Gaslighting, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Stancest - Freeform, Tags to be updated as we go, Tumblr Prompt, Violence, dark!stan, implied monster fucking, implied open relationship, implied polyamory, multiple AUs, old!Ford/teen!Stan, old!Stan/young!Ford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-22 23:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16607270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: I went scouring through my tumblr drabbles the other day and thought: hey, wouldn't it be convenient if these were all in the same place?Some art drabbles, some prompt fills that are too short to post on their own. I'm going to do my best not to double post. Let me know if I've already posted something on AO3! I'm extremely disorganized.





	1. A Good Brother

**Author's Note:**

> (The [original tumblr post](https://brandyfromthebottle.tumblr.com/post/169372871112/a-good-brother))  
>   
> They’re on the the Stan-o-War II when Stan asks the question.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re on the the Stan-o-War II when Stan asks the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [original tumblr post](https://brandyfromthebottle.tumblr.com/post/169372871112/a-good-brother)  
> Dark!Stan, gaslighting

They’re on the the Stan-o-War II when Stan asks the question.

“Why’d ya build that portal anyway, Sixer?” He asks as he whittles away at a piece of driftwood he fished out of the ocean. It took a few days for it to dry enough to carve. Stan isn’t sure how a piece of wood floated this far north, but the way the seas-softened wood yields to his knife is satisfying. He isn’t sure what he’s making but there’s a shape forming. Ford chokes on his coffee, sputtering and wheezing. Stan glances up at him.

“Why- _hck_ -why do you ask?” Ford coughs wetly.

“Just wondering, like, what the demonic nacho said that got ya so hot an’ bothered,” Stan says with a shrug. “Ya didn’t even try to ask questions.”

“It wasn’t--it wasn’t like that,” Ford says. Stan watches Ford’s fingers tap against his thigh: one, two, three, four, five, thumb. Ford needs to work on his tells.

“Sure,” Stan agrees easily. “Wish I was there, though.” Stan sighs. He carves a long curl from the wood, severs it with a twitch, and watches it fall to the floor with the rest of the slivers.

“I know,” Ford says and echoes Stan’s sigh.

“I mean if ya’d just trusted me, Ford.” Stan huffs, starts gauging little notches into the wood. “Ah, well. We all make mistakes.” Stan grins at his brother. Ford frowns pensively, looking at Stan like a puzzle. Stan sets down the driftwood. “And good brothers forgive each other, right Ford?” Stan leans forward, cups Ford’s rough jaw in one hand. Ford covers Stan’s hand with his own.

“I suppose,” Ford murmurs. Stan strokes a thumb over Ford’s cheek.

“Yeah,” Stan says. “But we don’t gotta worry ‘bout that, huh, Sixer?” Stan cups Ford’s other cheek, knife still in hand but carefully angled to avoid Ford’s eyes. Ford flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “Cause ya trust me. Right?” Ford is quiet longer than Stan would like but, finally:

“I trust you.” And Ford looks Stan dead in the eye, knife or no. Stan leans up and over the table.

“Atta boy, Sixer,” Stan pecks a kiss to Ford’s tense face. “And I’m gonna make sure you never gotta worry. I’m not gonna let any other cons out there hurt ya,” Stan says. Ford smiles at him, finally relaxing, angling to kiss Stan full on the mouth. Stan lets him and watches the way the fading light catches on the blade by his brother’s face, burning like saint’s fire or a brand.

“I love you, Stan.” Ford breathes hotly against Stan’s lips.

“I know ya do,” Stan answers, watching the blade burn. “I know.”


	2. The Prince and the Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An arranged marriage prompt: "I've loved the idea of you since before you were born."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [original tumblr post](https://brandyfromthebottle.tumblr.com/post/173463391222/i-have-loved-the-idea-of-you-since-before-you-were).  
> Age difference between teen!Ford and old!Stan

It’s an affront that Filbrick chooses this match as opposed to any of the other numerous suitors with pedigrees or the ability to produce heirs. Ford isn’t court savvy, but even he knows this is an insult. 

The man is grizzled and gray, poor shaven disgustingly hairy. He looks more like an old, worn mountain bear than gentry. He's enigmatic, coming from nowhere with no name and yet he has somehow spun a wealth from the nothing he brought with him. That impresses Filbrick enough to even warrant consideration in this matchmaking debacle, and that magic is enough to pique Ford’s curiosity. It is all the more disappointing when the man is just smooth talking con that has ensnared the entire court, Filbrick included. Still, Ford knows his place in the political machinations. 

He finds himself alone with the man over an intimate dinner, to “get to know him better.” It's a weak attempt to let Ford feel as if he has control over his future, and he'd rather not go along with this charade.

“Funny,” the man says, lifting his glass (and why can’t Ford remember his name?) “I thought there were three brothers.” He neglects to note the bouquet of the rich red wine in his glass, merely quaffs it and spills a portion onto his hands. “Oops,” he licks the burgundy trail from the crevices of his fingers, still looking at Ford, maintaining eye contact. It makes Ford uncomfortably warm.

“You’re misinformed,” Ford clears his throat. It doesn’t dislodge the bitterness, or the painful memories so he takes his own tactful sip of the wine. “There is only myself and Sherman.” The man wipes his spit wet hands on his trousers. Ford is too distracted with disgust to catch the dark look that steals the joviality from the man’s face.

“So, Stanford,” Ford tries to school his face into something pleasant and neutral. “Jesus,” the man laughs. “You gonna relax anytime soon? Or does that stick up your ass make you a better court puppet?” Ford immediately inhales the wine at his lips and begins to cough desperately. The man hops from his seat and, in an unhurried manner, circles the table to hit Ford several times on the back.

“Excuse me?” Ford wheezes when he finally can. His voice is too hoarse to properly convey his insulted fury so he glares as hard as he can. The man leans a hip against the table and nearly upsets Ford’s glass.

“Kid,” Ford bristles at the tone. “This doesn’t have to be terrible.” The man’s face gentles into something soft and fond. It sets Ford on edge, the unwarranted familiarity. He opens his mouth to respond, but freezes when the man cups his face with large, rough worker’s hands.

It’s a breach of protocol. It’s an offense that Ford could get the man arrested for. 

“Stanford,” The man says and teases his fingers at Ford’s growing sideburns. It makes something in Ford tremble so he swallows it down. “You don’t have to believe me. You’d be an idiot if you did, and we both know you ain’t an idiot.” The man’s pinky strokes the underside of Ford’s jaw to his chin and Ford shudders. “But, I love you. I’ve loved the idea of you since before you were born.” Ford’s embarrassed by the hitch in his breath, but he can’t help it. The man has cracked himself open like an oyster and left himself raw and vulnerable, and instead of seizing that weakness Ford finds himself cracking, too. Because Ford believes him. “God knows you deserve better,” the man keeps talking. “But I swear, I’m not gonna drag you down. I swear.” The man leans in and for a long, panicked second, Ford thinks the man will kiss him. Instead, the man rests their forehead together. It feels more intimate than anything Ford has ever experienced. He feels as if this man has married them, the spills of wine and uneaten dinner their witnesses and this careful tenderness a consummation more intimate than any carnal imagination.

Ford is crying when the man pulls back. 

“I,” he starts, one hand lifting, covering the man’s for a moment as Ford touches the wetness gathering at his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. He strains to look anywhere but the man’s face.

“Don’t be,” the man says, thumb sweeping under Ford’s eye, smearing the forming tear track over Ford’s cheek. Ford clears his throat and sits straight, draws himself up as cleanly as he can. The man’s hands fall away and Ford’s face feels cold and wet without them. 

“I’ve forgotten who you are,” Ford admits. He expects to offend the man, to ruin this strange, soft moment between them. Instead, the man grins.

“Well,” the man says, rubs one of those large, rough hands at his neck. “I thought it would be awkward, but, seeing how it is.” Ford frowns, confused. The man rolls his shoulders, holds out a hand. “It's good to meet you, Stanford,” he says with exaggerated grandiose. “You can call me Stanley.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arranged marriage AU: "Don’t cry. I promise I will love you and protect you to the best of my ability, til death do we part."  
> feat. Bill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [original tumblr post](https://brandyfromthebottle.tumblr.com/post/173275579127/dont-cry-i-promise-i-will-love-you-and-protect)  
> Dark!Ford, manipulation, dreamscapin'

“Well, well, _**WELL**_.” Bill's voice echoes until it narrows to a point and pops inches away from Ford's face. “Just couldn't stay away, huh?” Five, ten, fifty black hands circle around Ford. “Gotta say, I've missed ya, too, Sixer.” Hands move under the waist of his jeans, thin as shadows, but so much more real. “Present company is so _BORING_.” Ford doesn't startle when the space around them warps and Ford is standing in a motel room, watching his brother getting fucked by some faceless thing with too many hands, each one burning a familiar brand wherever it touches until Stan is marbled with them.

“Stop,” Ford says. Stan’s head jerks up to stare at his brother, eyes wide and red. His mouth is open in a scream and Ford can see his broken teeth.

“You can't be here!” Stan shouts and Ford finds himself physically pushed out of the dream (nightmare) and into another part of Stan’s mind. It's quieter here and Ford realizes that Stan has sent him to a colorless replica of their childhood room. It's dark and seems dilapidated, the wood of the bunk beds is rotting, and the top mattress is sinking through the upper slats in frayed strands of fabric and molding foam. When Ford glances out the window, he sees nothing.

“YEESH,” Bill says as he colors the room yellow. “He kicked ya good.” Those thin, inky arms wrap around Ford, again. 

“Get off,” Ford says. Bill laughs.

“I miss ya, Sixer. Do ya miss me?” Bill coos.

“No,” Ford answers and swats at a hand trying to slip under his sweater.

“Rude, and after all we’ve been through,” Bill purrs. “After all we’ve **BEEN** to each other.” Ford finds himself restrained, silky arms winding like snakes around his wrists and pulling until he’s leaning back into Bill. “You’re _**MINE**_ ,” Bill shouts, light flaring around Ford, making him wince and squeeze his eyes shut. 

“You're wrong,” Ford says and tries not to give Bill the satisfaction of feeling him squirm when the spare hands (there are always spare hands) start to explore again. He can’t help the sigh though, when Bill strokes over his stomach, behind his ear.

“We made a deal, Sixer,” Blue light crackles to life around him, arches in blinding, terrifying bands that threaten to choke-burn-destroy--

“You can’t touch me, Bill,” Ford says, gritting his teeth against the Pavlovian panic.

“Wow, time with Fez has made you **_REALLY STUPID_**.” Bill shrieks. The bands tighten and start to burn. “ _ **WHAT DO YOU THINK I’M DOING NOW**_?”

“Bad,” Ford gasps. “Deal.” Ford coughs when Bill drops him with a hiss.

Bill grows large and red. “I don’t MAKE bad DEALS.” His mouths slash open, three-five-three, around his large, furious eyes. “And you’re PISSING me **OFF**.” Bill slams a hand down. 

It passes through-over-around Ford. “Stanford,” Bill says after a tense beat.

“Our deal was never valid, Bill,” Ford bears his teeth viciously and pushes himself off the moth-eaten carpet of Stan’s mind. “You can’t touch me.”

Bill screams and slams his hands down again, one after the other and the other but fire and lightning shimmer over Ford’s body like water. 

“How?” He screams. “ ** _HOW_**?”

The world shifts in a sickening smear as Ford remembers.

 

(“Don't cry, Ford! We don't need them.” A baby-faced Stan clings to an equally young Ford as the other boys run away, laughing. “Promise! I’ll love you.”

 

“I’ll protect you best I can!” Stan says after he spits on the sidewalk. “Always!”

“Always?” An older-but-young still Ford mumbles as he rubs at his bruised cheek. Stan's grin is bloody around his braces. 

 

“They call it the ‘little death’,” Ford says. Stan’s still sticky and disgusting inside him.

“Huh,” Stan pushes himself up to leer at Ford. “Guess it’s death do us part, huh?”)

 

“Doesn't COUNT, _**BRAINIAC**_.” Bill laughs, that horrible, shrill sound, rushes as close as he can to Ford. Ford can see his reflection in the yellow sclera of Bill's eye. “He’s a VEGETABLE.”

“It's still binding. By the law of c632-b it's a binding, consummated marriage; by c*12 it’s a validated claim.” 

“That’s your PLAN, genius? Hide behind BIG, BAD _**BRUISER**_. Just like OLD TIMES. Betcha feel real _NOSTALGIC_.” Bill slams down two enormous hands that shatter on contact.

“He'll _DIE_ , meat sack!. WHOOPS. GONE. BYE, BYE BIRDIE. And then you're **_MINE_**."

“We'll see,” Ford says. Bill shimmers and suddenly he’s small, the way he looked when Ford met him. 

“YIKES,” Bill says. “Who knew you’d keep Bruiser for his _brain_.” Ford frowns at Bill’s admiring tone.

“Good-bye, Bill,” Ford says and lets Stan's mind kick Bill out and away.

 

In the cabin of the Stan-o-War II Stan startles awake with a gasp while Ford comes smoothly out of his meditation beside him.

“W-what…” Stan looks around wildly, unable to really see without his glasses. “Wha…” Stan touches his face and blinks at the tears.

“Sh, don’t cry,” Ford carefully cups Stan’s fossil-fragile face, checking his eyes.

“You’re...Stanford? I thought...” Stan struggles to remember, squints as if he can pin the threadbare memory with his eyes. “But you're here?”

“Sh,” Ford pets Stan's wispy hair, lets his white head rest like mistletoe against Ford’s red sweater. “I can't leave you,” Ford says. “Even if I wanted to,” Ford chuckles, pets Stan some more. “You love me.”  

Stan nods, slowly becoming more awake. 

“I had a strange thought,” Stan says. 

“What about?” Ford asks.

“It's silly,” Stan picks at his nails. “I thought…” Stan stops, starts again. “It’d be kinda nice to get rings, ya know?” Stan grins sheepishly at his brother. Ford blinks in genuine surprise.

“Rings?” Ford says.

“l said it was silly.” 

“I don't think it's silly,” Ford says. “I think it's sweet.” Stan makes a face at Ford.

“Don't be sappy. It ain't like--well it's just so nobody gets no ideas,” Stan grumbles. 

“Ideas?” Ford raises an eyebrow. 

“Well, I mean… kinda exclusive, right?” Stan says.

“So, you want me all to yourself, then?” Ford smirks. “Won’t share?" Stan flushes slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. Ford grins. It’s vicious.

“Perfect.”


	4. Our Little Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford goes back to the science fair the night it all changed to change a few things of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this FOREVER ago for a friend. I thought I had posted it. It's a bit rough.
> 
> [Original tumblr post](https://brandyfromthebottle.tumblr.com/post/168946732447/our-little-secret)
> 
> Age difference, old!Ford/teen!Stan, dubious consent kissing

It's wrong for a multitude of reasons, least of which is the incest. Stan is just a boy, all baby fat and acne and soft downy hair where indomitable scruff will grow; he is impossibly young and smooth. He is also terrified, cowering on the floor of the gymnasium, empty bag of toffee peanuts crinkling loudly under his ass as he scrambles to right himself. Ford looks down at him dispassionately. Stan is already sporting a bruise on his cheek from Ford's dramatic (violent) and vengeful entrance. 

The perpetual motion machine is slowing and smoking. The smell is infuriating. 

“You selfish child,” he snarls. Stan is scrambling backward and to his feet, growing angrier like a cornered animal.

“Look, mister, I dunno who you think you are--”

“Shut up, Stanley.” Ford advances, heavy combat boots intimidatingly final on the hard cement of the floor. Stan gulps but he slides into a defensive boxer’s stance with that touch of hard earned roughness of back alley brawling. Ford feels a brief swell of fondness for the (pathetic) juvenile and ineffective attempt at intimidation this young Stan is attempting. It’s like watching a wolf before a tiger. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He asks, arms folded behind his back, a sneer twisting his lips. Stan frowns hard at him.

“This about sneakin’ in?” He asks. Ford rolls his eyes.

“You ruined everything,” Ford says instead of throttling this version of his brother. (Instead of taking this younger, softer, pliable version of his brother to the gymnasium floor to earn penance.)

“The hell you talkin’ about?” Stan frowns, confused. Offended. Stupid.

“You broke it.” Ford turns dismissively, walking to the perpetual motion machine that even now is moving slower and slower. He can hear Stan cautiously moving up behind him.

“...Are you one of them school judges?” He asks. Ford scoffs.

“You really don’t know do you?” He holds a hand out with a flourish of each freakish finger and then gestures to the machine. Stan gapes, pales. “Tomorrow this this machine will be useless, costing your brother his chance at success. At being someone.” Ford turns and Stan stumbles back in a full-body flinch, staring at Ford's six fingered hands. “My chance.”

“F-ford?” Stan stares at him, face a wash of emotions, eyes wide, mouth slack. Ford looks him over, the young, soft body. The round, open face. He feels a twist of heat in his gut he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“It’s me,” he says, softening his voice, his stance. He reaches out a hand. Stan startles back, but the boy trusts his brother, even this old, grizzled version, and lets Ford’s gloved hand settle on his cheek, rough leather brash against his cheekbone. 

“Ford?” Stan asks, nervous, shifting slightly.

“It’ll be okay, Stanley,” Ford says. “I can fix it.” Stan’s face lights up, hopeful.

“Really?” He leans eagerly forward and into Ford's hand. 

“Of course,” Ford says with a fond smirk. “But,” he adds and watches Stan’s face shutter suspiciously.

“The catch?” Stan leans back. Ford pushes his hand around the back of Stan’s head, holding it and Stan close.

“Nothing in life is free, you know that, Stanley,” Ford says, lightly grabbing the short brown hair. Stan stiffens, street smarts and con instincts letting him to intuit exactly what Ford is getting at. 

“Yeah, don’t think so, buddy,” he says and shoves at Ford’s arm. Ford just tightens his hold until Stan hisses and his hands are flying to paw at Ford’s fist balled in his hair.

“I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do,” Ford says gently. Stan growls.

“Whatever, pervert; I’ll scream,” Stan threatens and Ford cocks an eyebrow at him.

“No one will come, Stanley, you know that.” Stan glares at him, but he’s nervous and sweating, face flushing. He looks tempting. “How’s this,” Ford relaxes his hold until his hand is a vague threat cradling Stan’s stinging scalp. “Just a kiss. If you don’t like it, then you can leave.” Stan narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. 

“Ford’s project,” he demands.

“I’ll fix it. It’s my future after all,” Ford answers and Stan thinks it over, looks hard at him. 

“Okay. One kiss. Then you fix it,” Stan says and Ford nods. 

“If you don’t like it, you leave,” Ford agrees. Stan nods shakily and squeezes his eyes shut like he expecting a blow. Ford chuckles; he leans down and carefully places a chaste kiss on Stan’s salt chapped lips. “There,” he pulls back. Stan blinks his eyes open, a blush on his face.

“What was that?” He demands, flustered.

“A kiss. You didn’t like it?” Ford asks innocently. Stan scowls at him. 

“That’s not a kiss! That’s...that’s...nothing!” Stan declares.

“No?” Ford asks.

“If that’s what ya call a kiss then--MMF!" Stan’s little diatrade is cut off as Ford leans in again, letting an open mouth kiss fall on the young boy in front of him, taking advantage of Stan’s shocked, slacked jaw. He gently licks into Stan’s candy-sweetened mouth, pulls back to nip the bottom lip delicately before diving back in. Stan’s hands fly up to grab Ford’s shoulders, steadying himself as he moans when Ford gets it just right. Ford pulls back, Stan making a discontented noise and then a gasp as Ford sucks right at the base of his ear. He kisses up and down Stan’s neck until the boy is panting. He pulls back and he knows his lips are swollen, but Stan is a mess of red; he is a sweating face, a stubble burned and hickey marked neck. The boy is panting and Ford smiles at him, eyes lidded.

“Did you like that?” He asks, a soft purr and Stan blinks dumbly before shaking his head.

“I,” he says and then stops, conflicted. Ford leans forward, kiss his temple sweetly.

“It’s okay,” he promises. “It’s our little secret.”   
  



	5. Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arraigned marriage au prompt: "You are mine now. Don’t look at anyone else."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o[riginal tumblr pos](https://brandyfromthebottle.tumblr.com/post/173244491917/may-i-request-some-you-are-mine-now-dont-look)t

“You are my sunshine,” the old man sings to himself roughly. He can't hit the high notes without getting reedy and his low notes are like gravel. “My only sunshine,” he sings to the rounded porthole. It's a cloudy day but the sea is gentle. 

“Stanley,” Ford prompts gently. He doesn't startle when a cold hand falls on his shoulder, thick wetness seeping into his sweater.

“He's drifting,” the thing says. Ford doesn't look at it, he knows better.

“You make me happy,” Stan croons, “when skies are gray.” 

“What do I do?” Ford asks. 

“You know what to do.” The thing’s finger-like protrusions grow hard before retreating. “If his mind remains untethered he will be…” The thing hesitates. “There isn't a word for it.” 

“You'll never know dear,” Stan rocks from one side to the other. “How much I love you.” 

“There’s nothing else?” Ford sits beside his brother and grabs his limp, papery hand.

“That you have this chance at all is a boon,” the thing says. 

“What do I do?” Ford whispers.

“Claim him. Guard his eyes,” the thing says.

“Claim…?” Ford stops himself from staring at the thing. Those horrible fingers close around his shoulder again. 

“I do not how it is done with your kind,” another hand rests like a weight on Ford’s head. “But we are old and bonds are growing rare.”

“Stanley,” Ford says softly. 

“Please,” says Stan, and Ford thinks for a moment he’s back. “Don’t take,” Stan sings on.

“Claim him,” the thing’s coldness seems to be draining into Ford’s bones. “Guard his eyes.”

“Stanley,” Ford squeezes Stan’s hand. “You’re mine.” It sticks in his throat but he manages. Ford gently turns Stan's face so that he can see his eyes. 

“He’s already drifting,” the thing warns.

“Don’t look at anyone else,” Ford says. “No matter how bright.” Stan blinks.

“My sunshine,” Stan croons. “Away.”

“Did it work?” Ford asks. The thing withdraws its hands.

“We’ll see.” Ford hears a noise like water running and then silence.

“Ford?” Ford starts when Stan’s spare hand covers the one on his face. He looks into his brother's wary eyes.

“Stanley!” Ford’s smile fades when Stan grabs his wrist.

“Ford, what did you do?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff prompt 49: “I do love you, I don’t enjoy you.”

“Let me die.” Stan sighs at the miserable creature under the dirty blankets.

“Can’t,” Stan steel himself and yanks the blankets away. Ford groans like Stan has raked him over coals instead of exposing him to fresh, clean air. “Niblings like ya. And I like them.” Stan steps around an empty bottle of liquor and onto something that crunches and then squelches. “Okay, what’s the damage?” 

Ford looks awful. His five-o’-clock shadow is trying to become a beard. His pseudo beard has...something caught in it. His glasses are gone; his hair is wild where it isn’t stuck in sweaty clumps to his forehead.

“Stanley, do you love me?” Ford squints at him, eyes painfully red.

“Unfortunately.” Stan risks looking at what he stepped in. He regrets it. “What did you do?”

“Stanley, please, end me.” Ford flops a limp hand in supplication. 

“Well,” Stan looks around, spots Ford’s glasses peeking out from his discarded briefs. “I do love you,” he carefully picks up the glasses. Nothing bites him. “I don’t enjoy you.” Stan gently places the glasses on Ford’s face. “But, the kids like ya.” Ford glares at him through the smudged glasses, eyes still miserable and unfocused.

“You’re cruel,” Ford moans, but manages to sit up, and Stan gets a good look at the numerous hickies on his thighs and stomach.

“Whoof. Those aren’t mine.” Stan leans in for a better look. Yup, hickies: purple and red; stippled like a Monet. That one’s a bite. 

“What?” Ford looks down, rights his glasses when they try to slide off his nose. “Oh. Oooooh.” Ford groans and falls forward to hide his face in his hands.

“Worth the hangover, Spot?” Stan looks around again for...something. Maybe water. Or a camera.

“The damn cycloptopus,” Ford groans again, somehow more miserably. “It--”

“Ford, I’mma stop you.” Stan puts up a hand. “You let me believe you had a wild one night stand with a mouthy stranger--” Ford mutters something darkly. “--or tell me you fucked squiddy, and scar me for life.”

“I didn’t--”

“Okay! Stranger it is!” Stan doesn’t find a water bottle.

“The cycloptopus is contained,” Ford rubs his temples uselessly. “Idiot.”

“Uh huh,” Stan grunts.

“And that would be wildly irresponsible. It mustn’t taste human flesh.” Stan freezes to let the statement settle into his old, fragile bones.

“The niblings love him,” Stan whispers to himself. 

“God, my ass,” Ford moans long and loud and pitiful.

“The niblings love him.”


	7. Sugar and Sap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickstanwich fluff prompt 27: "I can't believe you talked me into this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [original tumblr prompt](https://brandyfromthebottle.tumblr.com/post/172770941012/rickstanwich-with-27-i-cant-believe-you-talked)
> 
>  
> 
> Alcoholism

“Sugar, please!” Mabel holds out her pink  mug, big button eyes and white, piggy snout on the front, spunky, curling tail in the back.

“Mabel, yer tea is syrup. There's no room for sugar.” Stan snatches the sugar from Ford's hands, setting it wisely out of reach of either his brother or niece.

“Stanley,” Ford chides, little bitchy frown forming.

“Grunkle Staaaaaan,” Mabel wheedles, enthusiastic grabbie hands reaching for the sugar. Long, slender fingers passed it to her.

“Y-yeah, Stan.” Mabel squeaks happily as the sugar comes back into her possession.

“Thank you, Grunkle Rick!” She promptly upends the who container into her tea, small white granules spilling over onto the table and floor. 

“No problem, Sweetie,” Rick pours his own addition into his mug, his wide eyed, blushing fox mug shaking slightly when he brings it up to his drooling lips. 

“Rick,” Ford hisses. Rick lurches to the side, spilling tea and  _ something else _ to escape Ford’s hand going for his mug.

“W-watch it.” Rick sneers and doesn’t expect the attack from the other side, Stan’s large but deft fingers plucking the mug away. “Hey!”

“Guys!” Mabel whines. “You said you’d be nice!” Her eyes are wide and wet and her lip is dramatically trembling. Rick scoffs, slouches in his seat as Stan sheepishly sets the mug down. Ford clears his throat.

“Sorry, Mabel,” Ford fiddles with his mug, fingers tracing the discs of the owl’s flat eyes, playing over the feet protruding from the base of the mug. 

“Yeah, sorry, pumpkin.” Stan looks expectantly at Rick.

“W-what?” Rick takes a pull from his mug with a glare that Stan hadn't noticed him taking back. 

“Rick--” 

“Don't--don’t start with m-me, Mr. Flask.” Rick talks right over Ford, yellowed teeth baring in a sneer that Ford returns.

“Don't you dare--”

“Hey, Mabel!” Stan's chair makes a skidding noise when he stands abruptly. “We're out of sugar.” 

“We are!” Mabel says and stands as well.

“We need more sugar!” Stan grins tightly at his niece.

“I think we have sprinkles?” Mabel grins back, less tense, braces gleaming.

“Good enough! Let's get the sprinkles. In the kitchen. Which is not here.” Stan scoops Mabel into his arms to her squealing delight.

“What a specific excuse!” She waves at Rick and Ford.

“Play nice!” Stan calls over his shoulder.

“Grunkle Stan why are we…” Mabel’s voice trails of as the she and Stan disappear leaving Ford and Rick bristling at each other.

“I can't believe you,” Ford hisses, hands white knuckled around his mug. 

“ _ I _ can't believe you talked me into this,” Rick’s ever present slur and stutter smooths out and he almost seems sober beside the drool and wild, red eyes. “B- _ OR _ -ing as fuck.” Rick burps inelegantly into Ford's scowling face.

“This is important to Stan,” Rick rolls his eyes and obstinately dumps the rest of his flask into the mug.

“W- _ UGH _ -nt some?” He offers the mug to Ford after taking a healthy gulp and burping. Ford looks at the mug, the vague but adorable fox face, and swallows.

“Rick.” 

“Uuugh, geez, don't get y-your panties in a twist.” Rick downs the rest of the tea. “There. Big, bad booze all gone. Happy?” 

“Hardly,” Ford leans back in his chair. Rick burps again and the air smells like stomach acid and vodka. Ford taps his mug, takes a sip. Taps it more rapidly. 

“H-how long it been, h-huh?” Rick leans forward with a feral smirk. “Gotta be thi- _ eeer- _ sty.”

“Enough.” Ford's fingers are tapping a hard, fast rhythm on the mug. Rick grabs the agitated wrist and half leans half pulls Ford until they're inches apart and the air is charged with something physical. 

“Just a taste,” Rick licks his lips free of the lingering saliva. They’re shiny and wet. 

“I said--” Ford grunts when Rick takes the chance to kiss him, mostly tongue and, yes, he tastes horribly like vodka. Ford breathes hard through his nose, smells all the disgusting things that cling to Rick Sanchez like scars: the bases and acids, the alien drugs, the boring, terrestrial liquor. 

Rick pulls back, spit stringing between their sloppy mouths. Ford’s eyes are flat and dark. 

Then he shoves Rick hard enough to send him to the floor.

“As, come on, yo-you love it.” Rick cackles, legs splayed in a primitively lewd way. 

“Sanchez,” Ford closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “You are not going to ruin this.” Rick scoffs and rolls to stand, annoyingly elegant even drunk.

“Whatever, asshole,” Rick fumbles out his portal gun but before he can fire it and escape, Ford’s grabbed him hard by the arm.

“You promised.”

“Uugh, I lied, okay? I do that.” He tries to shake Ford off but it's a losing battle.

“This is serious.” Ford hisses.

“So am I, now let go, I'm going to find a  _ fun _ Ford.” Rick wiggles free. 

“It's for Stan, Rick.” Ford seems to sag, looks at the table and the little bear mug Stan left behind. The little bear’s head is empty. 

“Stans are a dime a dozen.” Rick types out his next dimension, doesn't look at Ford.

“...Are you really going to waste all that time,” Ford puts a hand on the gun, broad fingers threatening the delicate instruments. “Looking for a ‘dime a dozen’ Stan, Rick? When you have one right here?”

“He’s broken,” Rick spits, wrenches the gun from Ford before Ford can use it to pistol whip him. “Duh-don’t try to guilt trip m-me, Ford.”  Rick steps forward, gets into his face. “This is y-your fault, genius.” 

“Shut up,” Ford’s hands are fisted in Rick’s lab coat as his face twists like the stained fabric. “Just shut up, Rick.” Ford shakes the man to click his mouth shut. “You’re an asshole and I don’t know what Stan sees in you--”

“His dick, usually.” Ford shakes Rick again, harder. His head snaps like it’s breaking off.

“I’m trying, Rick.” Ford takes a deep breath that whistles through his gritted teeth. His hands start to shake. “He’s getting worse.” Rick scoffs, looks away when Ford tries to meet his eyes. “You’re an awful human being, Rick Sanchez--”

“Wow, way to woo a guy--”

“Just do this for him, okay?” Ford finally lets him go, lets Rick straighten out his ruffled clothes. “While he’s still here?” Ford steps back, gives Rick space to make his choice. Rick glares at him when he rights his chair and sits. 

“H-how long does it fucking take to find fucking sprinkles.” Rick grouses. Ford sighs and takes a seat as well.

“Thank you,” Ford wraps his hands around his cold mug. 

“I used all the sprinkles for the sprinkle gun but we have maple syrup!” Mabel’s voice is a muffled shout from the kitchen.

“I could fix it.” Rick says quietly.

“I know.” 

“You just g-gotta ask.” Rick glares at his mug and then Ford. “You haven’t asked.”

“You haven’t offered,” Ford replies after a moment. Rick seems about to speak when they both hear Mabel and Stan rounding the corner.

“Sorry it took so long!” Mabel guides Stan into the room by his hand, smiling but strained. “We got a little confused.” She says as Stan puts the syrup on the table.

“Kitchen’s a nightmare,” Stan grumbles while he settles into his seat. Ford looks pointenly at Rick.

“H-hey, uh.” Rick clears his throat, licks the drool at his lips. “This is a nice party.”

“Really?” Mabel beams. “Thanks, Grunkle Rick! You’re always on cool adventures and I was worried you’d be all bored and aaah!” She waves her arm, loose sweater sleeves flapping. 

“Y-yeah.” Rick clears his throat. “I, uh, my cup is empty.” Rick pushes his mug forward.

“Oh!” Mabel smacks her forehead. “My gosh! We need more tea! I’ll be right back!” Mabel grabs the teapot shaped like a water monster, mouth the spout, before she bounces away again.

“Thanks,” Stan smiles at Rick, wrinkles gathering at his eyes. 

“Ugh!” Rick scowls and slouches over his mug. “Bunch of dumb saps.” He regrets it immediately when Ford says:

“No, that’s sap,” and nods at the syrup.

“Don’t,” Rick warns with a groan. But Stan laughs, a rough sound that is objectively ugly. 

“And Ford’s a genius,” Stan adds, smiling proudly at his brother, like he’s seventeen and bragging about his “super smart, nerdier twin.” Ford swallows as his eyebrows fall, face softening.

“But you’re the smart one,” Rick says, a salacious twinkle in his eyes.

“Aw, come on, now who’s sappy?” Stan rubs at his face until it’s too red to show a blush. “Rick!” 

“You’ve just,” Rick’s hand continues up Stan’s thigh. “Rubbed off on m-me.” 

“Hot tea!” Mabel rounds the corner as Stan smacks Rick’s hand away. “Grunkle Rick? Would you like syrup?” Mabel pours Rick a fresh mug, tops up Stan’s and Ford’s.

“I’d love it, sweetie,” he says, smirking at Ford. “When you can’t get s-sugar some sap will do,” and his face is nothing but lecherous when Mabel sets the pot down.

“Grunkle Rick, that’s gross,” she looks at him knowingly.

Ford almost chokes on his tea spoon.   
  



End file.
